“That’s why I came. Word is, the king plans an invasion of Locan Jora in the spring. No, no, please don’t talk. I promised you I’d speak my piece and be gone, so let me speak it. I know you don’t want any fighting, not with friends and cousins and so forth over there. I don’t either. You saw what happened when I took up the sword. One fight, and Folgothan got hurt and arrested. Even small wounds can have bad consequences.”
Lark and Plir gave similar short nods.
“So what I want to do is gather all the women, those who have family in the military. The military have to follow orders, I understand that. And we can’t do much against trained fighters, not alone. But what if we were a great number? What if, just imagine it, we had half the kingdom raised, all peaceful, no swords among us, and we begged the king not to invade?”
Plir went very still. Atanial scarcely breathed.
“Randart would cut us down without compunction,” Plir stated.
“But Canardan won’t. He’d hate even the suggestion. I don’t have a lot to say in his favor, but I know he wouldn’t do that.”
Plir shifted the basket again. “Yes, we’ve heard a lot about you and Canardan.”
Atanial sighed. “My prison was a beautiful suite. He gave me clothes, and he even gave me jewels.” And how many times am I going to have this conversation? With every single woman, no doubt. “He wanted everyone seeing me in those clothes and jewels. He wanted people to see me dancing at that masquerade, because he knew what people would think.”
“Queen Ananda’s servants swore you and he were not lovers,” Plir said unexpectedly. “But he could have forced them to say that before he pensioned them off.” She turned away. “I have to think.”
Atanial backed up a step or two. “I said I’d be going. I’ll be gathering at Ivory Mountain,” she added deliberately and walked away, her heart thumping hard.
The stars were just emerging, weak glimmers overhead. It was close timing, but there was no sound of hoof beats on the still air.
She mistook four trees for her willow and had to backtrack to the road before she found the right one. Freezing into place under its sheltering curtain, she watched the riders amble into view, each carrying a bobbing lantern.
Their noise smothered the quiet, steady munch of the horse. Atanial leaned against the animal’s neck, arms pressed across her front. She knew she was going to face that same conversation every time she tried to build her protest march.
Or maybe she wouldn’t after all, if some angry woman reported her.
No self-pity. She would simply go until she either had her peace marchers a la 1968 or was caught. At least, she thought, trying for humor, if Canardan catches me again I’ll get another soak in that wonderful tub.
She’d just mounted up when a furtive step caused her to whirl around.
“It’s me. Lark. Ma sent me. I’ll show you who’s important. She’s going to stay here and spread the word.”
Atanial’s eyelids burned with grateful tears. She wiped her eyes, then helped Lark up onto the horse’s back. She mounted, and they vanished into the night, Lark pointing the way.
***
Mindful of his promise, Jehan agreed to attend a ball that evening, freeing up his father for his private interview with Randart.
Attending a ball was not exactly torture. In fact, one of the duchesses had brought a daughter, newly arrived home from Colend, who was bright, beautiful, witty, fun to dance with.
A year ago he would have lingered and found a way to visit her again. But now he discovered there was just no spark. Her trenchant observations on the shortcomings of last season’s plays in Colend made him want to take Sasha to Alsais to see how she liked Colendi theater. Though she employed all her arts to attract, Jehan did not really notice her tiny waist, her exquisite sense of style in gown and hair. The image that compelled him most came from memory, a tall woman with a swinging stride and hawk’s beak nose, her braids dancing around her shoulders, her grin rakish and not the least coy.
After two or three dances, the duchess’s daughter sensed his indifference to her arts of attraction. Her laughter gradually lilted less and became a lot more wry. At the end of a long night of waltzing and scintillating talk on the subject of art, he gracefully saluted her hand, expressing a friendly wish they would meet again to continue their conversation.
Presently she left with her mother, saying, “Conversation is all he means. I think there’s someone else.”
“Nonsense.” The duchess snorted. “He’s notoriously cloud-brained. You’ll have to work harder to catch his attention.”
The daughter did not argue. She never did. But mentally she resolved to return to Colend, and when she came back again to Khanerenth she would be married. Next time he saw her, this Prince Jehan—who wasn’t cloud-brained, by the way—would probably want to introduce his wife.
As for Jehan, he was glad to drop wearily into bed at last. Too tired to plan much beyond avoiding Randart the next day, he slid into slumber in the last watch before dawn.
And woke with Kazdi at his bedside, holding a tray of aromatic coffee. “Randart rode out after the sun came up.”
Jehan sipped, burned his lips and tongue, and sighed. “Any idea where?”
“Bar Larsca Valley. The guards were joking about the siege site, and how Randart can’t seem to stay away from the game.”
Jehan frowned. “Riding off the morning after arriving? There has to be something else.”
Kazdi shrugged. He never even tried to understand Randart, much less out-think him. That was the prince’s job. His job was to try to deflect Chas and other spies.
“He’s suspicious.”
“Of us?” Kazdi’s voice cracked on the word us, but Jehan didn’t smile, and Kazdi was too anxious to blush.
“I don’t know,” Jehan said finally. “Let’s accept that as a given and go from there.”
Chapter Sixteen
The rest of the academy and the guards finally joined Damedran and the academy cadets at Cheslan Castle.
By then the senior cadets had a camp set up at the site the baron had designated with planted flags, a stretch of land recently harvested. In the fields beyond the campsite, the work of harvest went on as the newly arrived cadets finished helping set up the permanent camp.
Damedran, as senior cadet, accompanied his father to the castle for the first meeting with the baron. It was a meeting of surpassing tedium, but Damedran didn’t care. His mood was a happy blend of anticipation and triumph. After weeks and weeks of stony looks and avoidance, Lesi Valleg had finally spoken to him. It was short and gruff—about watch assignments—but that was far better than being scowled at.
As the baron and Orthan Randart settled what the army could and could not do with the castle, outbuildings and grounds, Damedran brooded.
He loved war games, he loved commanding and, well, some said Lesi had ears like open clam shells and buckteeth, but he’d liked her ever since they were little. She was tough, smart, and no one in the entire academy shot better than she did.
She was also the leader of the cadets that didn’t like him, Damedran knew. When he was younger, that was the perfect excuse for scrapping whenever there was an opportunity. But this year thrashing them had gotten less fun, somehow. He much preferred things when the seniors were all together as a unit. With him at the top, of course.
It was especially clear after this boring ride that having the senior class divided was no good. When half weren’t talking to the other half, opportunities for some great practical jokes and some well-earned and entirely fair swank in front of the younger brats went right by.
What was it the sheep had said? Prince Jehan, he reminded himself. They’d have to be unified if Norsunder attacked. And, much as he’d love to believe how tough they were, he and his gang, the midsummer games had sure proved that wrong.
Reminded of that mysterious nine-year-old boy, Damedran shrugged inwardly. Rumors had been flying around since the games disaster, most
insisting that boy was really the son of the hated Siamis of Norsunder, who had commanded two world-wide wars in the previous decade. Either his son or the son of the far worse villain, Detlev, about whom the stories were amazing and chilling. But Damedran scoffed at such gassing. Even if those enigmatic villains, who commanded vast armies and had their eyes set on world conquering, had children, wouldn’t those children be busy in some hidden lair learning whatever it was you learned for world conquering, and not wandering around shooting in stupid contests like the yearly games in Khanerenth?
That much he said out loud when the others brought up the games and rumors. But alone at night, thinking and, well, go ahead and admit it. Worrying. He couldn’t help wonder about what Wolfie had said about that fight. And that amazing training.
“All right then, that covers it, Orthan. We’re done. I look forward to watching, heh heh.”
“I hope we’ll show you something worth seeing.”
The men stood, breaking Damedran’s reverie. He was glad to be interrupted.
Orthan Randart started out, pleased with his son’s quiet, even agreeable demeanor, unlike his accustomed slouch and scowl. Not realizing that Damedran had not heard a single word spoken, Orthan rubbed his hands as they descended the main stairway and clattered through the old hall to the front gate, their heels ringing loudly, their mail and gear jingling. On either side of them, servants were busy taking down and rolling tapestries, or carrying off carved chairs, some of them heavy square jobs with gold inlay, the style of three generations previous. Windows were being removed, leaving the castle a bare shell, suitable for a satisfactory siege game.
“It’s good to deal with one who understands the military,” Orthan said. “Here’s the boundaries, here’s the rules, point, point, point, and we’re done. Civs, they argue about every piece of porcelain, every bush, yowling, ‘But what if?’ until your head aches, and then they’ve got their hands out. The king’s purse might be deep, but it’s not a bottomless pit. As they ought to be the first to know, they argue so much about taxes. Heh. Looks like we’ve got everyone in at last.”
They had passed through the courtyard, smelling of stable, to see dust hanging in the air above the meadow where they had set up camp. The swarms of youth in brown had been obscured entirely by strings of horses, wagons and a mass of warriors moving about with various duties, most of them casting glances skyward at the gathering clouds. The smell of horse and human, of cooking food, hit them with a similar sense of sharp anticipation.
As they got closer, the mass became identifiable as discrete patrols, each with a task. Most talked, laughed and joked with the geniality that father and son associated with the commencement of a massive war game, the prospect of fun not only for a day or a week, but for an extended period.
Orthan veered to search for the newly arrived captains. Damedran lagged, hoping to slip away to his own crowd to find out who had gotten what done, and what practical jokes might be possible.
Then a bugle’s exciting challenge ripped the air from a distance: the king’s signal, but just blown once.
“It’s the war commander. Riding at the gallop!”
Heads turned, voices sharpened, and that enormous crowd of people—everyone at different chores—parted like the waters of a great river. Down the cleared, trampled grass rode Randart at the head of an honor guard of six.
Damedran’s first reaction was the old excitement. That’s what command did for you, it parted the way better than magic ever could.
Orthan laughed at his son’s avid expression. “Dannath does so love scattering us like chickens in a fowl yard. Always has.”
Damedran looked up skeptically. “Uncle Dannath? He doesn’t love anything. Except work.”
Orthan shook his head, watching the riders rein to a halt. They were immediately surrounded by officers, to fade back again when Randart waved a gloved hand, obviously giving some order, after which he disappeared into the command tent, two of his guard taking up position at the flap. “He loves power,” Orthan murmured.
Damedran grinned. “And we don’t?”
Orthan grinned back. “I like my power circumscribed. I wouldn’t take a crown if it fell in the dust at my feet. Too much work. Think about it. I was upstairs watching my old cadet friend, Trevan Hazhan, now the Baron Cheslan. He was with Dannath and me and the king in the academy. The king handed out titles as he’d promised. We got ours. But are we ever at our castle?”
Damedran’s lips parted. It was true. He was technically heir to a barony now, but that title had never seemed real. He’d only been in the castle for a few brief visits since he was eight, and old enough for the academy. Wolfie’s mother helped Damedran’s mother govern it, and Damedran had gradually gotten used to the idea that Wolfie would inherit. Because he was going to have a much higher rank.
“Would you leave the academy if you could? Go live in the castle?” Damedran asked his father. “I know Uncle Dannath wouldn’t. He’d hate that, being stuck inland at some poking-small castle. He’s used to being the king’s right hand.”
Orthan chuckled, muttering under his breath.
Damedran thought he heard the words—he’s used to being king—but wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Wasn’t sure he could even ask. Anyway they were nearly at the command tent, and Uncle Dannath appeared at the flap, beckoning impatiently.
The jumble of belongings, maps, papers, swords wooden and real, had been thrust into the far corner of the tent, the folding camp table swept bare. Randart looked up at his brother and nephew, his eyes red-rimmed with tiredness and road dust. “Report.”
“We were finishing up with Trevan. Everything laid out, all in order. First thing—”
Randart waved his gloved hand. “You see to the logistics, Orthan. Where are the other wings?”
“Probably on the road. I haven’t had any scouts, but we just got here ourselves,” Orthan replied.
Randart nodded once, staring down at the list Orthan had laid on the empty table. It was apparent that he was preoccupied, that he didn’t see it. The silence in the tent seemed to sharpen the sounds from outside: horses’ hooves clopping, shouted exchanges, the thrump of marching feet on the cobblestone road, wagons creaking, grunts and laughs and curses as barrels and baskets and boxes were unloaded at the cook tent an arrow shot away.
After a long pause, during which Damedran tried not to fidget or to look a question at his father, Randart said abruptly, “We’ll ride the perimeter.” And strode out, leaving father and son to follow.
As Randart barked orders for three saddled horses to be brought at once, Damedran sighed. More interminable talk about logistics, had to be. He longed to get back to the cadets’ side of the camp.
He turned his attention that way and immediately caught sight of shoulder-length ruddy curls. Lesi. Talking to Ban! What were they talking about? Lesi lifted a saddle, turned, her gaze meeting his. Her expression changed to the remote one he hated.
“Damedran.”
The sharp tone whirled him around. His uncle gave him an impatient look, and Damedran loped to close the distance between himself and the two men.
The war commander glared at the senior cadets, then mounted up. They rode out, again everyone backing out of the way, no matter what they were doing.
On the way out of the camp, Orthan talked about the baron’s dispositions. Randart and Damedran only appeared to be listening.
As soon as they were beyond the camp far enough to be out of earshot even of the first perimeter sentries, Randart cut him off with an abrupt gesture. “No one can hear us. And no one is to know what we three discuss. Orthan, you are to be commended for your excellent attention to detail. I have had a chance to think over what you flagged, and I have the same suspicion as you do. That female with the firebird banner who fumbled onto the military road is probably Atanial’s missing daughter. It would explain why the pirate Zathdar never tried to ransom her, or use her as a threat or lever in any way. She got free of him, then was,
I believe, briefly held by the prince. Escaped him too, which argues she knows magic.”
“What?” Damedran demanded. “Princess Atanial’s daughter?”
“I think so. The descriptions are very brief, but what we do have all seems to fit. It’s that banner, mostly.” Randart snapped his fingers. “There is another matter. Increasingly I find that reports are indicating unexplained lags in messages or messages not being delivered at all. Anomalies between what was sent and what was received. I believe we have moles in our own information relay, and possibly traitors in important places or close to important people. It will be my immediate job to investigate the most flagrant of these. In the meantime.” Randart turned in the saddle to face Damedran. “You are to pick six of your most loyal cadets, and the strongest, and track down the Zhavalieshin girl.” He pulled from his pouch a much-folded paper and handed it to Damedran. “Here’s the best description we have.”
“But—a princess? I don’t understand. I want to stay here with the war game—we planned this all summer—”
Randart said softly, “Are you by any chance arguing with an order?”
That voice, terrifying since early childhood, chilled the back of Damedran’s neck. He was too old to be beaten, he knew that. So the punishment would only be worse. “No, War Commander.”
“You aren’t cavorting with that Valleg girl, are you? I thought you’d gotten past that foolishness.”
Damedran suppressed a surge of anger. “No.”
“The Vallegs are a good service family. Always have been. For generations. I envisioned that girl holding one of the castles in Jora, once we retake it. But if,” Randart said in that voice again, soft with threat, “I thought she was suborning you from your duty, I’ll have her given a dishonorable dismissal.”
Damedran thought wildly. “Oh, it’s only that we had a wager. About who’d get their patrol flag to the castle wall first. I hate losing. You know how the seniors gloat. We do that a lot, Ban and Wolfie and the rest of us. Wagers, I mean.” That much was true. But Damedran knew he was babbling, as if to cover over his lie. He’d never dared to lie to his uncle before.
Twice a Prince: Sasharia En Garde Book 2 Page 13
